


i'm a slave for you

by aquaexplicit



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rome, Alternate Universe - Spartacus, Angst and Fluff, Blowjobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Quick Burn, Slavery But Everyone Is Getting Freed, Soft Warrior Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:24:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquaexplicit/pseuds/aquaexplicit
Summary: Francisco is a newly freed slave. Harrison wants to help him learn what freedom means.





	i'm a slave for you

**Author's Note:**

> you don't need to have watched spartacus to read this. just know that oliver is trying to free all the slaves/take rome down, harry is his right hand man, cisco is a slave they've just freed who has some trouble accepting his freedom and goes by his roman name tiberius for a minute, and that none of this is that deep. 
> 
> pls ignore how ridiculous all their names sound in this time period :/

The boy has potential. Harrison sees it drip from him as he spars against Oliver’s wooden blade and misplaced compassion. His strength, his edges, shine as bright as the blood which dripped from his mouth when he tried to repay Oliver setting him free with steel.

Harrison watches the boy burn and burns. He does not understand what Tiberius has done to capture him, but he feels more a slave to Tiberius’s bared teeth and dark gaze than he ever did a Roman. To be held so captive, so curious and sharp, is an uncomfortable yoke, but Harrison finds he cannot release himself. 

“I fear our little man will not last,” Barrence comments as they overlook his training. 

Harrison's heart flinches in his chest. “Pity,” he says, but cannot make himself look away.

\- 

He attempts friendliness. Tiberius is no timid thing, but connection is not encouraged among slaves. Harrison means only to show him there is nothing to fear in brotherhood when he brings Tiberius a cup of wine as they all supper that night.

Tiberius accepts his drink with a nod. Nothing more. Harrison does not know what he expected, but it was more.

He wants to push. Tiberius may no longer wear his collar, but Harrison still sees him reach for it. The movement sets Harrison's bones ablaze. It opens the old wounds of he and Jesse's time spent under Roman rule. Perhaps if he can cauterize the cuts Tiberius carries, it can soothe the remainder of his own.

-

The next night, Harrison repeats the hospitality. He can feel Oliver and Barrence watch him as Tiberius watches them, no gauze or shadow in his violence. They have asked of his fascination with the boy, who upon holding a sword has proven himself a man as much as any of them.

Harrison has not answered them. He cannot. He can only watch the cleverness of Tiberius’s feet and hands in the sparring field, can only hear the quick slit of Tiberius’s tongue, can only think of the smooth column of Tiberius's unclaimed throat.

“Do you still think me rabid?” Tiberius asks in place of offering thanks. He still accepts the drink. 

“I think you wholly lacking in stealth,” Harrison answers honestly. “You do not hide your intentions well.”

“I am not attempting to.” Tiberius peers at him under lashes curved soft and dark. “Will you kill me? To save your masters?”

Harrison does not know whether to laugh or reach out with rough hands to halt such insolence. He blinks. “No man is master here.”

Tiberius is unconvinced. “Any man who influences another is a master. Any man who can wield power will wield it.”

“Not here,” Harrison assures him.

He settles from a crouch to sit fully at Tiberius's side. Tiberius eyes him wary but curious. The gaze scrapes at Harrison's skin, scrapes him raw. He finds he does not mind the bluntness or the pain, as long as it rewards him with Tiberius's sun like attention.

“Not all men have the soul of your dominus. The people here do not seek to rule one another. They believe in freedom. They only seek to help others find it. To help you.”

Tiberius laughs. It is a lovely sound, though Harrison knows there is little humor in it. “Of course. Your people have freed me so that I may bleed for their cause.”

Harrison frowns. “That is not - ”

“Do they not mean for me to pay for my freedom?” Tiberius hisses. He turns, angry and warm and open mawed against Harrison's shadow. “I am still a slave. Worse. I've no station now. No standing.”

“You have what you can build for yourself,” Harrison hisses back. His heart boils in his anger. He does not know how to make this man, who is so clearly intelligent, who is so clearly strong, understand what it means to be free, to be whole.

“You should have left me to die at the side of my dominus. There would have been more freedom in that. More dignity.”

The vicious, thirsty thing that seizes Harrison on the battlefield seizes him now. He has offered so much to Tiberius - attention, and advice, and sight. The spit of Tiberius's rejection blinds him. He knocks the drink from Tiberius's hand.

“Perhaps we should have,” he grits, and stalks away.

\- 

Oliver finds him training alone the next morning.

“He needs time.”

Harrison clenches his teeth. “We have none to spare.”

He hacks at a tree with his blade. It is a waste of sharpness. He knows this, but his wound is more fresh and more deep than his logic.

“I did not think you a man whose affections were so easily swayed,” Oliver comments lightly.

With a growl, Harrison's sword finds itself buried within bark. Harrison breathes through his nose.

“You have never seen me taken with affection.”

He sees Oliver's hesitantion in his peripheral. Do not say her name, he thinks, loudly. They do not speak of Jesse out loud if they can do otherwise. It keeps her safer. 

“I have not seen it since we delivered Jesse to the safe village. I admit I was surprised to see it awakened by a contrary slave boy, but I suppose not unsurprised.” 

Harrison glares. “I saw in him what I saw in many others newly freed. I thought to change his heart would be a great victory. Clearly, I was wrong.”

Oliver regards him, far too silent, too knowing. Harrison regrets every moment they have bled in one another's arms, bringing them beyond brotherhood. 

“He needs time,” Oliver repeats. “And a teacher. Few have fought harder for freedom than you. Few cherish it more. I believe he will be open to learning from you, if only you allow him a moment to breathe.”

He is right. Harrison knows this. His heart rushed too quickly for something his mouth can not yet say. He expected too much. His fallen wife would tell him daily his impatient heart was both the loveliest thing about him and what would kill him one day.

“I hate it when you are reasonable,” Harrison sighs.

Oliver claps him on the shoulder. “Then take heart. The reason is from Laurel.”

“That does ease injury.” 

Smiling, Oliver turns to leave him. Then hesitates. “Laurel also told me she believes Tiberius may be open to more than learning from you.”

Harrison's hand stills around the hilt of his sword. “I do not - ”

“You have spent so much time watching him, Harrison, yet somehow you have missed his eyes upon you.”

-

Harrison waits until night falls, dark and twinkling as Tiberius's skin, before seeking Tiberius again. He is helping Caitlin, another slave freed, sort rations.

“Tiberius,” he says, as gently as he can. Rough and loud startles the slaves like fawns. Caitlin watches him with wide eyes. Tiberius does not meet his gaze.

“I've no wine to be thrown,” Tiberius says. “Perhaps you should return closer to supper.”

Caitlin glances between them. She is tense and pale as a column, but Tiberius flows as strong and easy as a sea. Harrison bites the inside of his cheek.

“We are busy,” Tiberius says again.

“For one who claims to love the role of slave, you have taken to defiance most spectacularly.”

Tiberius looks at him then. He is not amused, which Harrison finds helplessly amusing.

“Leave us,” Tiberius says, more softly than Harrison thought him capable. Caitlin hesitates, but steps from the room, giving them silence and space. “Are you here to offer apologies?”

“No. But I would offer explanation.” 

Tiberius smiles. “Of course you would. I do not need it. You bring me a cup, you may smash it away. It was yours to do with as you pleased. Just as I am.”

The words startle Harrison. He forgets himself. “You are not mine.”

“No?” Tiberius asks, eyebrow raised. His attention, his body, his magnetism, turns solely on Harrison. He stalks forward. Harrison remains rooted. “Do you not wish for me to be?”

Before Harrison can deny the slick tone of Tiberius's words, Tiberius is breathing in front of him. Warm palms slide over his arms. Slow, and sensuous, as honey drips upon sweet bread, and Harrison would allow it to soak him utterly if he thought it was not a game. 

Tiberius tilts closer, mouth hovering close enough his breath fans over Harrison's jaw. “Do you not ache for it?”

Harrison pushes him away.

Tiberius huffs. The rejection is clearly unexpected, and Harrison watches with no weak hunger as anger darkens Tiberius's gaze.

“I am a warrior, Tiberius. I have felt life leave me more times than you have felt the west wind. I live as I fight, with the utmost passion, for I know how easily it may all burn.”

“Show me your passion then,” Tiberius dares, angry and sore with it. “If it is so great as you say. Let me see it with my own eyes. Let me feel it with my own body.”

“Not while your heart still beats as a slave,” Harrison tells him. His blood and heart race, sick with want but sicker still with rage. He is of sound enough mind to remind himself not to unleash it on the man in front of him. “I would touch you only when you were a free man.”

Tiberius opens his mouth, but remains silent. There is little else to say.

-

It is two days before they speak again. This time, it is Tiberius who finds him among the night celebrations. He carries two cups. When he offers Harrison one, he does so with the smile of a lamb.

“I do not offer apologies,” Tiberius says as Harrison takes what he does offer.

Harrison smiles. It is an easy thing, easier than it often is, in the crackle warmth of fire and standing without Tiberius's resentment scratching rabidly at him.

“Of course not.” In truth, Harrison would welcome it, as he thinks he would welcome anything so saccharine from Tiberius. He does not say this.

Tiberius taps their cups together. They watch a match of Iris and Laurel, bringing wooden swords and sharp teeth to one another in excellent sport. Harrison laughs and cheers and before blood is drawn, Tiberius is echoing the sounds. 

Once the match is finished, Tiberius does not leave his side. Harrison does not move, lest it inspire Tiberius to do so.

“You were right,” Tiberius says as the crowd around them thins.

“I often am,” Harrison responds. Tiberius laughs. “So often in fact that I fear I do not know what correct thing you are speaking of.”

“Tiberius is not my name.” Tiberius, not Tiberius, peers at him. “I had a brother, once. He called me Francisco.”

“Francisco,” Harrison repeats. The name sits fuller in his mouth, rich as meat and wine and battle. “It suits you.”

Then Francisco grins, revealing two rows of teeth blunt enough to tear sinew and enough sweetness to leave Harrison's jaw aching. It is the grin of a free man. A joyful one.

Harrison returns it.

-

When Francisco is not training, he is at Harrison's side. He becomes a shadow, always close, always lingering, always a gently trailing reminder that Harrison walks among the living. Harrison finds replacing solitude with Francisco’s questions and quickness a blessed exchange.

Francisco tells Harrison all he remembers of his life before he was bought and sold. Harrison attempts only to listen, but cannot hold his tongue at times, especially when it is clear Francisco misinterprets memories. There can be no truth to the memory that his parents and village preferred his older brother, as there are few people who walk the other more preferable. Harrison cannot keep this to himself. 

The strangest thing happens when Harrison's mouth betrays the silence Iris and Laurel continuously encourage. Francisco smiles, and tucks his luxurious curls behind his ears, and the barest hint of color rolls warm along Francisco’s cheeks. It thrills Harrison each time. He seeks it, often, and alights at every victory.

\- 

One day, as they wash for supper, they find themselves alone, and Francisco takes the moment to casually ask a question he has clearly been wishing to ask.

“Do you have family?” 

“Cousins,” Harrison answers, a coward first as he is in many things not on field of battle. But he knows Francisco deserves more. Francisco treasures knowledge, and Harrison's company. Harrison should give this. “And a daughter.”

Francisco’s eyes round. “A daughter? You have never mentioned her.”

There is hurt strain on Francisco's normally clear voice. “No. It was with difficulty I do not speak of her. But few know she exists, and fewer still no where she hides. It is safer that way. Safer for both of us.”

“Others would hurt her to hurt you and your cause.” Francisco nods. “I understand.” 

Harrison hesitates, but only for a simple heart beat. He has not known Francisco long but he knows Francisco well. And as soon as he imagines saying the words, his chest feels looser, lighter.

“She was a slave once, as I was. Her dominus would battle Jupiter himself to once again slip collar around her neck.”

Francisco blinks. “You have not killed him?”

“His head will meet my steel one day. The moment I have opportunity. But until then, there are few people I can trust.”

“You can trust me,” Francisco says, earnest and bright.

Harrison grasps his shoulder. “I know. That is why I told you. Why someday, when I can, I will introduce you.”

“You will?”

“Yes. And you will adore each other, which I am certain will result in madness against me.”

Francisco's laugh is blinding.

\- 

Harrison thinks the admission of his daughter will bring he and Francisco closer. He does not know to what end, or if that closeness will involve the brushing of fingertips or cuts, but he is pained to find that after sharing meal that night, Francisco allows distance between them to grow between them. To gnaw between them.

He must request Barrence allow him to step in as Francisco's training partner. His tongue is sore to do it. He has never had to request such a thing. Francisco and he always seek one another out.

When he takes position against Francisco, the man does not meet his eyes.

Harrison narrows his. “You avoid me.”

“You have much to do to prepare for next battle,” Francisco explains, but it is no explanation.

“You could help me.”

“I do not know what I am doing.” 

“You could learn,” Harrison breathes through a wind of irritation. “You have spoken many times of how you enjoy to learn by my side. What has changed?”

“Are we going to spar? If not, I will find Oliver - ”

Harrison raises his wooden sword to strike. Francisco scrambles, but he parries, although he does so without grace. Being caught off guard ignites Francisco's anger as it does any warrior, and he forgets whatever coy dance he was stepping, attacking with a snarl that beckons Harrison's blood and flesh lust.

They exchange blows. Harrison deflects many of Francisco's hits, but not all, perhaps only half. He watches awestruck as Francisco spins and slices and moves with the fury of a body born in blood.

“You have learned well, little one,” Harrison tells him.

Francisco makes an animal noise and strikes, vicious and glorious in his fangs. “I have asked you not to call me that.”

Harrison laughs meanly as he jumps from the swipe of Francisco’s blade. “And I have asked you why I no longer find myself with my new Syrian limb. Answer my question and I will abide by yours.”

“It is no business of yours,” Francisco says. He is breathing ragged. His movements are sharp with anger but Harrison's are sharper, for he has more anger, and Harrison strikes the sword from Francisco's hand.

Francisco does not stop fighting.

Before Harrison can demand surrender and response, Francisco throws his entire body at Harrison's gut. It knocks the air from Harrison's lungs as it knocks Harrison's feet from the ground and heart from his chest.

Francisco pins him, at first. Shock and lack of air allow it. He quickly overpowers Francisco. Cagey and growling and rabid as Francisco is, Harrison has strength and experience on his side.

He pins Francisco's slim, golden waist between his thighs. When nails come to scratch him, seeking to cause real injury, he wrestles Francisco's wrists in his hands and pushes them to the ground. He does not think of how it feels as if he could crush Francisco's bones under his fingers or how warm Francisco's skin slips against his own.

“Release me,” Francisco demands. 

“Answer me,” Harrison responds.

Francisco bares his teeth, and squirms, but Harrison does not relinquish his hold.

“Answer me,” Harrison repeats, softer in tone and volume.

Francisco relents. “You told me of your daughter. You did not tell me of her mother.”

It is enough of a blow to knock Harrison from Francisco’s body. Harrison is loathe to be without it though he has known its fire only for a moment. He can only stare and pant as Francisco pushes himself to sit. 

Oliver appears by their side at the worst moment.

“Are you alright?” he asks Francisco, and Francisco alone.

“Fine. It is nothing.”

“At least allow me to - ” Oliver begins.

“I will bandage him,” Harrison says.

Francisco huffs. “I need no bandages.”

“I will bandage you.”

Francisco seethes, but allows Harrison to lead him by hand to the medical supplies.

\- 

“Jesse's mother. My wife. She was consumed by sickness many, many years ago.” 

Harrison explains this in solemn tone as he twirls white wrappings around Francisco's knuckles. They are reddened, skin not split, but the sight bites at the fire not yet cooled in his belly. He feels sick to carry it for the body in front of him as he grieves aloud for the one he lost, but he is helpless under the press of pain.

Francisco watches from his seated position as Harrison works. He bites his lip.

“No doctore could cure her. Jesse never truly knew her, but towards the end, when her mind and body were ravaged - ” Harrison pauses. Breathes. “It is better that Jesse's memories are dim.”

Then there is a hand, gentle, at his neck. Francisco directs his attention from bruised skin to battered gaze.

“Apologies,” Francisco whispers. “I did not intend to open old wounds. I thought - it matters not.”

“I know what you thought,” Harrison sighs, taking a seat next to him. Francisco's hand falls and he wishes it back immediately. “There are many ways to love, and desire. There are those who would keep a faithful wife and yet pursue another. I would not.”

Francisco hangs his head. “You must think me foolish.” 

“Never. I think you only full of passion, as any warrior is.”

Francisco ruins him with a grin. “I have not seen battle. I would hardly call myself a warrior yet.”

“Your heart beats as one who has seen and slayer a thousand men,” Harrison says. “I ask only that next time you are overtaken, you speak with me instead of trying to tear my arm from socket.”

“I intended only to beat you with it,” Francisco laughs. “But I will. Apologies, again. For making you speak of this.” He offers a friendly touch. “But you will see your wife again one day, yes?”

Harrison sighs as Francisco allows his gaze to drop. He slips his fingers under Francisco's chin, holding him still.

“I do not believe there is anything past what we live and breathe now,” he admits honestly. “I am grateful for the gifts she gave me. But she is here no longer. She told me to wrest whatever joy I could from life once she was no longer in it, for this life is the only time joy can be found. I honor what she has asked of me as best I can.”

Francisco takes Harrison's wrisr, removing his touch from the handsome dip in Francisco's chin, but does not release him. Instead Francisco ties their fingers together.

“As you should,” Francisco whispers. 

“You should as well. Pursue whatever goodness you can find in this life. There is far too little of it.” Harrison resists the urge to place a kiss to Francisco's newly calloused palm. “I would be part of that goodness, if you wish it. I will not hurt you as others have.”

Francisco sweeps his thumb along the back of Harrison's hand. It is chilling as a clear night, as comforting. 

“I know you would not. You are far too… soft, to hurt me.”

Harrison gaps. He has bared all manner of insult, but nothing as cutting as the words which have slipped from Francisco's smiling mouth. He finds he feels no offense.

“I am not soft," he argues for the sake of it. Francisco delights, laughing, and Harrison continues to draw more of it. "I am a warrior. A dealer of carnage and death.”

“Not with me,” Francisco says, smiling, still brushing aches along Harrison's skin. "You treat me as I have seen some men treat treasure."

Yes, Harrison agrees silently, enjoying the mingled warmth of their breath. He squeezes Francisco's hand in his. 

\- 

Francisco's first battle is magnificent.

Truly it is nothing more than a skirmish, but he is brilliant. He spins with ebony and blood and destruction spinning as spirits around him. His quick, clever mind gives him edge as deadly as his strength and aim. He cuts down half a dozen soldiers, not many less than every other warrior.

His victory is tempered by the weight of taking life. Harrison watches it heavy his sword around camp that night. Barrence and Iris offer kind words, and Francisco takes them with smile and thanks. But it is a weighted thing, the taking of life. Harrison vaguely remembers the blunt, cold hurt of it. 

Harrison takes a seat next to him once wine has been served. Francisco smiles, moving his sword for Harrison to take place beside him, and comments how the weapon has lost its lightness again.

“I thought the burden would lessen,” Francisco says, wry to disguise his injuries.

Harrison grips his knee, offering comfort in his own selfish, skin finding way. “It is the burden of taking life. Even a Roman one. But fear not. I will help you shoulder it.”

Francisco thanks him with a grateful look, then rests his head against Harrison's shoulder. The position is uncomfortable bordering on painful. Harrison allows Francisco to remain against him until Francisco realizes he's fallen asleep, and wakes, mumbling his thanks again.

\- 

The second and third battles are better even than the first.

It is the fourth battle that nearly kills Harrison. It is the fourth battle where Francisco nearly dies.

They begin fighting side by side, but in the midst of slaughter they dance bloody from one another. Harrison worries for him, though not as much as he should. Francisco can handle sword and enemy. He does not need a bodyguard. 

When few Romans dare breathe on the field, when Harrison is frenzied under the mania of split flesh and bone and body, he seeks Francisco. His eyes search for the carved, glistening marble of Francisco's battle rage. Instead he sees Francisco, diving at the wrong moment, with the wrong twist, taking a blade as it seeks Iris.

His scream deafens his own ears. He leaps over broken, gasping bodies. Iris spins to run the attacker through with a snarl. It is a mercy this man dies quickly by her blade in his belly. Harrison would have had him begging.

Harrison is by Francisco's side in moments, though times stretches as a desert before his palm finds Francisco's heart. It beats steady, if not strong. 

“I did not see,” Iris is saying as she kneels at his side. Her words are insects in Harrison’s ears. “He should not have - I should not have - ”

“Stretcher,” Harrison gasps. “We must - he needs a healer, now. We must put him on stretcher. We must get him safe. We must. Iris. I cannot - he needs - ”

Suddenly Iris stands. Harrison feels the enemy behind him before he sees it, but sight is unnecessary. Iris squares her stance and gives battle cry and he fears for nothing but the man bleeding in his arms.

He cradles Francisco's face as Iris slits the throat of the idiot who would attempt his life. Francisco blinks weakly at his touch.

“Francisco,” he breathes, relief weighing his limbs dead with cold. “You are alright.”

“Yes?” Francisco says. It sounds like a question. He squints into the sun, into the glint of Iris's blood soaked sword and skin. “Diana?”

Iris laughs, a stilted sound, and Harrison nearly sobs as his own chuckle chokes him. “Ever the charmer, aren't you, little one.”

“I will get help,” Iris says. She leaves them swiftly.

Harrison strokes Francisco's cheeks. He tries to hold Francisco's gaze, mind, as if he can tether Francisco to life through his attention. Francisco's eyes begin to flutter.

Panic takes hold. “No, no, keep looking at me. Look at me.”

“Harrison.” Weak hands reach pitifully for him, but Harrison takes Francisco's fingers. They are cold. “I am a hero.”

“You are an idiot,” Harrison grits.

Francisco only smiles. He has not heard Harrison's words. “I am glad. If I am to die, I am glad yours is the last face I am to see.”

“You are not to die. Not now. Do you understand me?” Harrison grasps his chin. Francisco's eyes are blown glass dull. The life is draining from them. “You cannot. We have - there is too much to do. There is too much. Francisco. Please, you must - ”

Then Harrison’s fellow soldiers are surrounding them. They take Francisco from his arms, which he knows is necessary, even as he bares his teeth at those who rest Francisco against the stretcher so they may carry him.

“Do not leave my side,” Harrison begs, shameless, as they lift Francisco from the ground. 

Francisco says nothing. Harrison watches through a fever as Francisco is taken away. 

\- 

It takes days for Francisco to sit up again. The hours not spent pacing at his bedside, Harrison dedicates to crushing Roman bones with rock and bare hand. Others urge him to sleep, but he is haunted by Francisco's bloodless skin, colorless lips. He would rather soothe his fears in devastation.

Oliver visits Francisco's side often. Iris more often than that, Barrence with her, both of them offering weeping thanks that Harrison both appreciates and can scarcely continue to suffer.

Caitlin, as it happens, has an affinity for healing arts. She has not shared her abilities before her fellow former slave fell. Harrison cares little, and snarls this when one of his fellow fighters makes mention of it. She will heal others in the future, and she will heal Francisco now. It is all that matters.

-

The night is cold as Harrison watches Caitlin apply salve to Francisco's hideous wound.

“He is getting stronger,” Caitlin says. He sleeps underneath her ministrations. She brushes hair from his cheek, intimate, gentle, but Harrison tightens the maw of his jealousy. They are friends. Family. He will not envy her thin boned touch. “Hopefully he will be on his feet soon.”

Harrison nods. “I fear it will be keeping him off of them that will give us greater trouble.”

“You have gifted sight.” Caitlin says, smiling water weak. “He is always stubborn. Always pushing himself. You will help me keep on rest, yes?”

Harrison does not express how eager he is to keep Francisco in bed, for any reason, and holds his tongue. He nods again.

Caitlin appraises him in the twilight silence. They have spoken, a handful of times, as much as Harrison has seen her speak with anyone they did not free from House Thawne.

She looks away from him. Her fingers move light, loving, over Francisco's still too pale cheeks. Harrison watches her with ache and anger.

When she next speaks, it is animal soft. 

“I killed my last domina.”

Harrison nearly bites his own cheek in surprise. He blinks as she applies more of her self made concoction and continues to speak, as if she has not shocked Harrison from his seat.

“I poisoned her. Eobard was the only noble clever enough to realize what I had done. That is why he bought me. He admired my knowledge. My.” She clenches her fingers against her palm. “Initiative.”

“He did not fear you?” Harrison asks carefully.

“He believed himself too clever to be killed.”

“By a slave?" 

“By anyone,” she says simply. “He and Francisco are the only ones who ever knew. He made me feel a monster. Had me create all manner of concoctions to dispatch his enemies.” She sighs. Her shoulders fall as her eyes roam Francisco's form. “Francisco - he always saw good in me. I had lost so much by the time I came to Thawne. I had almost lost myself. Francisco brought me back.”

Harrison has not asked what Francisco suffered at the hands of his dominus, and Francisco has offered little. He has said only that Thawne was the second to own him and the first to see him. He has not mentioned Caitlin’s role as Thawne’s personal apothecary of death, likely out of loyalty, out of protection. 

What would Francisco hope for Harrison's response?

“I do not think you should suffer guilt,” Harrison offers.

She is guilty, of course, but as a slave one can barely keep their own life safe. It would be unfair to judge her for not saving others. Harrison still does. He hopes to lessen it by the time Francisco awakens.

“Thank you,” she says. There is little warmth in her words. “But I do not seek your compassion. That is not why I tell you this.”

“Why do you, then? Do you seek conversation? Or do you merely wish me to be aware that you can kill me?” It is meant in jest.

She does not blink. 

Harrison does not, either, even as realization spreads her dawny fingers wide. “You threaten me.”

“I enlighten you,” she corrects. “I am not blind. I am not deaf to the whispers you and Francisco share. And I encourage him. You inspire smile upon his lips. Blush upon his cheek. He has not had such light in his eyes in ages. I would not see it dimmed.” 

“I would not hurt him,” Harrison says, voice low with offense.

“You let him be hurt.” 

Her tone is cutting, as are her words. Harrison clenches his teeth. 

“He is all I have in this world,” she continues. “And if there is anyone who has earned happiness, who has suffered for it, it is him.”

Harrison does not doubt her.

“I will do all I can to protect his heart. I swear it.”

“See that you do,” she says, and returns to dressing Francisco's wound.

-

When Francisco can walk again, it takes the diligence and strength of their entire army to keep him from battle. 

He whines, and pouts, and crosses his arms until his sweet face is creased with displeasure. His restlessness grows as his requests are continuously met with smiles and gentle, endearing pats. No one can help themselves. Even after seeing him bathe in blood on the battlefield, Francisco is little more than adorable in his demands to take up sword once more.

“You all mock me,” he laments one evening as he lies in Harrison's bed. Harrison allows himself to take pleasure in the sight of it. He offers Francisco soup, and drink, both of which are taken with full lips downturned so appealingly Harrison must not look directly at him.

“We do not mock you,” Harrison assures, grinning. “We are only trying to allow you to heal before you return to fighting. You are making it more difficult than the war itself.”

“Then you should all save yourselves trouble and let me go.”

“That is clearly the solution,” Harrison chuckles. 

Francisco glares, but it does not last. Soon the sun of his smile breaks bright.

“I am bored,” Francisco complains. “And I do not like the idea that you are to leave without me.”

Harrison meets his gaze. “You worry for me?” 

“Yes. You are really quite stupid, though you think yourself clever. I fear you will lose your wits again." He shrugs, then winces as the movement disturbs his injury.

“I am stupid only when I must worry for you.” 

Francisco laughs despite his obvious pain. “You are blind to your own flaws. You are stupid nearly all the time.” 

“I am?” Harrison laughs. He offers his hands for leverage as Francisco attempts to sit straighter. Stage position only pulls on the cut in his ribs. “If I am, then I am in good company. Can you not remain still?”

“No,” Francisco says, petulant. “And you are being stupid now.”

Harrison tilts his head. “I do hope you will enlighten me as to how. I would hate my stupidity to continue to offend.”

“You have not kissed me.” 

The easy laughter in Harrison's throat dies. He watches Francisco refuse to look at him. He breathes, feeling his ribs scrape in iron anticipation and nerves.

“I nearly died,” Francisco continues, gaze still and soft on his own hands. “And you leave for battle tomorrow. You speak so often of passion, of finding joy while we can, yet you act with hesitation. I must believe you are too weak of mind to know I wait for you, as the alternative is that you wait not for me, and - ”

Harrison takes Francisco by the chin, holding him until his ramble softens into deep, unsteady breathing. The air grows as heavy between them as it does before rain falls, before blood is spilled. Harrison allows it to soak his skin until his flesh feels too need drenched for his bones to bare.

With heart beat swelling his tongue, he dips forward, pressing his lips to Francisco's parted mouth.

It is wet and warm as soaked earth. It feels just as steady, yet not steady at all, as if the pressure could crack the ground or heavens themselves. It coaxes Harrison's blood to the surface.

When he leans away, Francisco merely stares at him. Then a moment passes, and a smile slows and softens Francisco's lips.

“Is that all you had been hoping for?” Harrison breathes, surprised to find his voice slick from such a simple slip of skin. 

“Not all,” Francisco says with answering wonder. “But it is a fine beginning.”

-

Battle is never boring. It is never dull against Harrison’s nerves, never a sore in Harrison's cheek. In it, Harrison knows who he is better then he ever has, save for when he has held his daughter in his arms. In it, he is at his best.

This battle seems to last centuries.

With every Roman he cuts down, it seems the hours should move more quickly, yet instead time slows under the slog and stench of death. It is madness.

Upon the eve of victory, Harrison is eager to march back. He curses constantly and at everything when Oliver tells him they will be setting camp for the night.

“I do not believe I have ever seen you so eager to leave battle,” Oliver says as they settle around fire. 

Laurel sits next to him, smiling. “He only longs to return to his bed now that he has Francisco in it.” 

“Ah, well. Having a beauty to warm you does make hearth more appealing than fight.”

“I hope Roman steel finds both of your tongues next fight,” Harrison says.

They laugh. 

“We tease,” Laurel smiles. “Francisco is a fine man. He has become a fine warrior, too. We are glad for you.”

“And sorry for him,” Oliver adds.

Harrison gestures rudely, but cannot help his smile.

\- 

Francisco runs to him upon his return.

It is a soaring feeling to wrap arms around Francisco, to lift his feet from the ground and spin him into a chaste but bursting kiss.

“I feared you would not return,” Francisco whispers between kisses.

“Nothing could stop my return to you.”

They kiss once more, careless of everyone around them, before Harrison delivers Francisco back to the earth. For moments they merely orbit each other; smiling, caressing face and neck, reminding each other of their scent and sturdiness and taste.

It takes Harrison until he is breathless with joy to realize the bustle happening about them.

Francisco sees his eyes dart around the base. “They plan celebration for your victorious return.”

But Francisco does not seem elated as the others do. His voice takes on tired tone, and his fingers press restless at Harrison's skin.

“You are not in the humor for celebration?” Harrison asks, worried for Francisco’s injury, for his mind and heart, both stronger and softer than any other that works among them.

Francisco touches his cheek. “I am more than ready for celebration,” he says. “This is just not how I envisioned doing so.” 

Heat licks Harrison's belly. “And how did you envision it?”

Francisco grins, a wicked thing on his gentle face, and takes Harrison by the hand.

\- 

They stumble into Harrison's room, half blind as they try to watch their steps without untangling their hands or tongues. It is dumb, lustful luck they fall into bed without injury.

“Tell me of your vision,” Harrison urges as they roll side by side, face to face, fingers stroking and clutching desperately at too long untouched skin. “Tell me what you would have me do.”

He waits for the answer as his lips find Francisco's pulse. His teeth scrape, and his tongue soothes, and Francisco's groans guide him only to repeat the movements. He does so until Francisco's grip tugs him into another deep kiss.

“What would you have me do?” he repeats, this time against Francisco's mouth. 

Francisco pauses, as if considering. He cradles Harrison jaw. Finally, he applies the barest pressure, stilling Harrison in his hunger.

“Treasure me,” Francisco says, soft but determined. It is the demand of a man free to give and take what he pleases. “I would have you treasure me.” 

A deep sound, the timber of pleasure, aches from Harrison's mouth. He kisses Francisco onto his back, then mouths from lips to cheekbone to forehead. He presses tender to Francisco's temple, eyelids, rounded nose and fat bottom lip. There he cannot help but sink his teeth as well. Francisco cries out, but it is heat, not pain, and Harrison does it again. 

He continues dragging his open, starving mouth over Francisco's freely bared skin. Francisco's jaw prickles under his kisses, but Francisco's throat trembles. There is a place close to Francisco's collar that coaxes laughter and squirms, and Harrison drags his tongue over and over and over it until Francisco scratches at his shoulders. 

The map of Francisco's body directs him down, over tight brown nipples that Francisco gasps to have touched, then along the wound that has scarred into star white against Francisco's sun skin. Harrison laves at it, apologizing, worshipping, before moving to Francisco's butterfly belly. Harrison kisses across it. Up and down it. He draws Francisco's laughter and high breath again. 

Francisco helps Harrison's eager hands divest him of last clothing. Harrison indulges himself in staring until Francisco pulls his hair, directing him to continue his exploration. Harrison goes with a grin. 

He presses his lips to Francisco's hips. Licks along the cut of them, carefully avoiding the fat curve of Francisco's cock. Francisco mutters, and sighs, and rocks his hips until Harrison has to push his palms against Francisco's warm thighs to still him.

“I thought you did not approve of torture,” Francisco pants. 

Harrison smiles as he brushes a light, closed mouth kiss to the head of Francisco's dick. Francisco's pleasure nearly crawls out of his skin.

“It depends on the methods,” Harrison says lightly. He kisses along Francisco's thighs. “But I seek only to fulfill your request.”

“Then make me come,” Francisco whines. 

“That was not what you asked,” Harrison reminds him. 

“It is what I ask now.” Francisco pulls at his hair again, not enough to sting. Harrison wants it to sting. “Do you prefer I beg?” 

“Never.” 

Francisco would do so in a moment, Harrison knows, and he doubts shame or propriety would darken Francisco after the heat of love faded. But lovely as it would be to hear Francisco says please, Harrison, please, it is not begging that Harrison most longs to hear.

He finds the hand not curled in his hair and kisses Francisco's palm. Francisco melts over the bed like a drizzled, tempting thing.

“Do it, Harrison.” That is a command. Harrison obeys happily.

The sound Francisco makes when Harrison swallows his dick must rival a siren song. Harrison does not believe in such creatures, but he can imagine few things more maddening than Francisco's sweet, shocked moan. Harrison wonders if anyone has ever done this for Francisco before, and decides if not, he will make it a first time to remember.

He is slow. Methodical. Concentrated on drawing every ounce of pleasure Francisco's body can take without collapsing upon itself. He does everything he enjoys himself, then everything he does not, gauging Francisco's reaction. Francisco gasps for it all. Slurs Harrison's name, and moans, and grips the sheets until his knuckles thin white. 

There is no warning for Francisco's finish other than the crashing of his groans. His noises ache higher, then louder, then ear splitting, and he is spilling down Harrison's throat.

Harrison continues to suck until Francisco makes a hurt sound. He pulls away and watches Francisco with a grin until Francisco can once again open his eyes.

“Do you feel properly treasured?” Harrison pants. 

“No. But I feel most improperly treasured.”

Francisco smiles and squirms as Harrison kisses back up his body. By the time he reaches Francisco's mouth, Francisco has gained enough energy to push at his shoulders.

Harrison offers no resistance, allowing Francisco's post bliss trembling hands to direct him however Francisco desires.

He falls on his back, Francisco above him, curls falling in a curtain of black. The scent of jasmine overpowers him. But it is more than perfume and oil that dizzies him mind and body when Francisco bends to kiss him once more. 

“How would you have me?” Francisco asks into a wet, wanton kiss. 

Harrison's hands find Francisco's waist, squeezing until he can feel ribs groan. He forces himself to soften. 

“Any way you would offer,” Harrison says sincerely.

Francisco pinches him. 

Laughing, half in true pain, Harrison gathers Francisco's hands in his. He places kisses upon Francisco's knuckles to silence any complaint, then presses his thumb to Francisco's full bottom lip.

“I would have the same,” Harrison whispers, mesmerized by the sinking of flesh.

Francisco licks the tip of his thumb, then nips it, drawing groan then gasp. Harrison pulls him into one more kiss before releasing his hands.

Any lingering thoughts about whether Francisco has ever done this for his own pleasure, if Harrison truly is his pleasure, are decimated by Francisco's eager tongue. Francisco's exploration is not as thorough but it is as ruinous, as wanton, as Harrison's had been, and Harrison can feel Francisco's desire for him as thickly as he can feel his own.

Francisco follows a path directed solely by passion. Lips and teeth and tongue leave Harrison's pale skin red and raw while the smoothness of Francisco's touch steals the few thoughts that remain in Harrison's head. He grasps at what he can, Francisco's thick hair like wine between his fingers, and whispers encouragement that Francisco does not need.

It seems hours, torturous and glorious, before Francisco finally licks from his hip bone to the base of his dick. Harrison exhales his need, and he fucks into the wetness, teasing as it is, and his fingers tighten in Francisco's hair.

“You asked for the same,” Francisco breathes, smug. “Or do you wish for more mercy?”

“I showed you mercy.” 

Francisco hmm’s as if he's weighing the veracity of Harrison's claim. Impatience claws a thousand nails under Harrison's skin. He pulls again at Francisco's hair, but forces himself to do nothing more.

Then Francisco smiles along the line of his body, leans until his hair spills blood lust over Harrison's hips, and takes Harrison’s cock into his mouth.

Harrison howls. Francisco swallows him whole, inside out it seems, and hollows his cheeks with no ounce of mercy. He moans in time with Harrison's own drunken sounds. It drives Harrison all the madder. He cannot help but thrust, but pull at Francisco's hair, possessed as he is by need. It does not matter.

Francisco meets demand, moving his tongue along a vein that feels close to bursting, stretching his jaw even wider so spit slicks from his mouth to the root of Harrison's dick. Harrison is undone under the heat in moments. 

Once finished, Harrison pulls weakly at Francisco, urging him into a kiss where they once again come together. Francisco laughs into it. Harrison mirrors it. 

They rest against one another until their breathing evens. Harrison calms himself by pressing kisses to Francisco's temple.

“I confess I longed for you on field of battle,” Harrison says gently against Francisco's hair. He smiles as Francisco slings an arm around his waist, sinking closer. “Although if this is the greeting that awaits me, I suppose my next venture may be eased.”

Francisco kisses his jaw. “It will be eased because I will be at your side.”

Relief at the very thought pulls Harrison to sleep as he pulls Francisco closer. “Yes. If you choose to be.”

“I will always choose it,” Francisco says, soft but fierce, earnest. “I am free. My eyes are no longer shrouded. I see now where my place is. Where I want it always to be.”

Harrison grasps his chin and kisses him as softly as heat will allow.

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a gif of nagron being so harrisco it hurt. jlarinda and snufffie jumped in my msgs to tell me all about nagron 💖 i fell madly in love and binged spartacus in an embarrassingly short time and now we are here. shoutout as always to darknessandterrorandkittens for letting me yell at them about this au for like 3 hrs.


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